


Gypsy Kiss

by Rachael Sabotini (wickedwords)



Category: Highlander: The Series
Genre: Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Power Dynamics, Racism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-10
Updated: 2015-03-10
Packaged: 2018-03-13 21:20:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3396761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wickedwords/pseuds/Rachael%20Sabotini
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Consone strides among them, a recognized master of the art, and all vie for his attention.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Gypsy Kiss

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Maestro](https://archiveofourown.org/works/45549) by [helens78](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helens78/pseuds/helens78). 



> Much thanks to sherrold and elynross for their wonderful beta work. DPP owns the Highlander source, not me. I make no money from my fan fiction, and I mean no harm. This story was written for the ["HL_Remix"](http://www.livejournal.com/community/hl_remix/) community's second challenge.

The practice rooms ring with the clash of steel and shouts of men battling one another, students at their lessons, boots pounding against the wooden floors. There's an occasional cry when a mistake is made, a drop of blood glittering on the floor. Consone strides among them, a recognized master of the art, and all vie for his attention.

He smiles at them and nods. His cock is hard from the passion and excitement, but all he lets them see is the gentleman. The other he hides for later.

As he watches the young men battle, the give and take of strength, endurance, and skill warms him even in the coldest part of winter. The rooms feel too hot, the scent and press of bodies overwhelming his senses, so he demands the windows stay open. It is a feast of activity, of life. It is rhythm, and need, and desire.

For Octavio Consone, it is life.

But when the students leave, life pales. The halls are quiet and still, reflecting nothing; the air is tepid and stagnant, the chill winter air seeping in and cooling the building. Even the faded light oppresses him. 

With only his own footfalls for company, Consone checks and re-checks the equipment, making sure it has not been damaged in the day's lessons. The longer he stays, the more the night draws in around him, and Consone heads further into the building to get away from it. He presses his hand to the wall, taking strength from its strange, near-human warmth. Sometimes he thinks he can hear a heartbeat in the walls around him, feel and smell a woman's breath brush against his face as he pauses in his lessons. He knows it is his fancy, nothing more.

Tonight, though, the heartbeat provides no solace. Instead, it drives him onward, through the rooms, down deep into the cellar, toward the sauna, toward the warmth and heat that has fled from the dark of night. Nearing the doorway, Consone hears something that shouldn't be there, little grunts and moans that have nothing to do with aching muscles or an aging body, nor he cannot mistake the voice. His gypsy, the one that pretends to be a gentleman, has reverted to form again, rutting with himself in a very public place. 

Only the absence of the other students gives the illusion of privacy.

The noise merges with the gentle pulsing that he feels around him, and the knowledge burns him like candlewax, sticking and clinging to his awareness, making it hard to breathe. He is not alone here, not tonight; his gypsy has stayed behind. His gypsy, with his dark hair spilling down his shoulders, his dark beard sculpted to show off his cheekbones and darker eyes, his body trim and muscular-- Consone draws a deep breath as he feels himself harden, and he thinks he can hear a woman's laugh.

His erection fades slightly as the sense of Immortal presence rolls over him; he steps into the sauna, catching Duncan in the act. The fool must have wanted to be caught, his head on one hand pressed against the wall, the other hand wrapped around his prick. Duncan lets out a frustrated sound and turns, wrapping a towel around his waist, hiding himself from Consone's eyes.

It is a useless ploy, for Consone can see how hard Duncan is, and his own flagging erection comes to life. A flicker of thought soothes his ego as he watches Duncan's breathing quicken. His lip curls in a half-sneer, half-smile as he watches Duncan's body betray him. The gypsy blood runs hot, and Consone thinks of what it would be like to warm himself with it, to bury himself within Duncan's body. The thought makes him even harder. "How is my estranjero today?"

"I--" Duncan's dark hair curls slightly from the steam, wisps of it mixing with sweat to frame his face. His lips are soft, his eyes wide as he swallows, swallows, and swallows again; he cannot form a complete sentence as he stares at Consone.

His fear and his hesitation make him as attractive as a woman, though Consone has battled him and knows Duncan is not soft. He is muscle and steel and passion; Consone's breath catches as he stares openly, his gaze drifting down to stare at the Highlander's groin, and his smile turns predatory. "I do not normally teach that type of swordwork."

"My apologies, Maestro--" Duncan blushes, a faint stain on his swarthy skin. This late in the day, his beard line is blurred, his cheeks shadowed. "I should not--"

Ignoring him, Consone slams Duncan back against the wall and jerks the towel away, a startled cry escaping Duncan's lips. It is so much better this way, Consone thinks, stroking his hand from Duncan's chest down to his cock. The conquest is sweeter when there is strength. Plus he need not be concerned with treating a gypsy the way he would treat a lady.

Fingers drifting over the hair on Duncan's thighs, Consone watches him carefully, like an opponent in a fight. Duncan's nostrils flare, and his eyes are wide, but he neither struggles nor pulls away. 

He has seen the way Duncan looks at him at times, and knows that Duncan finds him pleasing. Pressing hard against him, cloth-covered chest against the gypsy's naked one, Consone uses his leg to trap Duncan against the wall. "If you are hot, it is your gypsy blood," he says. His gaze locks with Duncan's, and he uses one hand to pin Duncan's hip to the wall. Grabbing Duncan's hard shaft with his other hand, he strokes it, watching as he bites his lower lip and groans, his head falling back against the tiles. The lower classes are so easy; it takes no skill to seduce them.

Consone has no patience for seduction in this instance, anyway. "You desire this, do you not?"

Duncan closes his eyes and parts his lips. "Please..."

"Pleading is useless." Consone shakes his head, pressing in tighter. It feels good to wrap his hand around Duncan's cock, stroke the length of him, his fullness filling Consone's hand. While he strokes, he watches the emotions play across Duncan's face: desire, want, greed. He hasn't learned to hide anything yet, his feelings written where everyone can see them. "If you want something, you must learn to demand it."

Passion pours off of him; Consone can read it in the tilt of his head, the way his eyes flutter half-closed, then spring open again. "Tell me what you want," he demands, his hand stilling. "What does your blood call out for?"

Shame ghosts Duncan's cheeks, flushes his chest and arms. He cannot speak, and Consone finds the fact charming. He lets Duncan breathe enough for awareness trickles back into his eyes. "Consone. Maestro. Please..."

Running his fingers the length of the reddened shaft, Consone laughs. "If you cannot say the words, nothing will happen, I assure you. I will leave you here, like this, and walk." He nips at the gypsy's tempting lower lip. The image of those lips wrapped around his own cock sends a shudder through Consone's body. Oh, yes, he would enjoy that. Consone waits, his hands gliding lightly over the moist tip as he listens to Duncan's ragged breathing. 

He pushes away from the wall, still watching, his gaze locked with Duncan's. A moment passes before the words are reluctantly forced through Duncan's lips. "Please...touch me."

Consone is delighted. It takes little effort to bend Duncan's will in this, and the results are most satisfactory. "Very good," he says as he takes Duncan back in his hand. "Now lay your hand on me." His voice is hard and sharp, like his voice in the studio, correcting a flaw in movement. "Unfasten my pants and take out my cock."

Duncan's eyes darken with desire as he does what Consone orders. He can feel Duncan's hand shake as he presses against Consone's erection, feels his hand wrapping around it, attempting to mimic Consone's earlier movements. He has no skill in this, and Consone amuses himself at imaging his gypsy a virgin with men, but immediately knows it for the lie that it is. No, he is too brazen here for a complete innocent; what he lacks is training. 

Consone will enjoy teaching him. "The first lesson is the most difficult." Consone twists his wrist, building a sharp quick pressure, and Duncan arches his back, thrusting his hips forward in desperation. 

He pulls and twists and slides. His own cock is aching, and Consone tells Duncan to add more force. Duncan's rhythm is awkward and wrong, but it doesn't really matter. Just the feel of Duncan's thick, hot hands on him is almost enough to bring Consone across.

Duncan strengthens his grip, then stiffens and cries out, pulsing wetness into Consone's hand; Consone braces his sticky hands on the wall behind Duncan and grinds into him, hard enough to trigger his own release.

He drops his head with a sigh, and Duncan turns to him, laughing softly into his ear. Duncan's lips brush him, and Consone jerks back, the lassitude of orgasm forgotten, his mind clearing. _No._ This is not how it is done. He stands up straighter and fastens his pants, not looking at Duncan. 

The cold is seeping in through the doorway now, filling the room; the fire in the sauna has gone out. He shakes himself, as if he had been under a spell. What was he thinking? There is no warmth for him here, no true desire other than the passion of a hot-blooded youth. Some day they must meet in battle, and it would be best if there were no entanglements. Angrily, he wipes his hand off on Duncan's towel and tosses it back to him. "You should get dressed."

Duncan looks puzzled. "I thought --"

"You thought nothing." He holds up his hand for silence when it looks like Duncan will protest. "Tomorrow, MacLeod. We fight at dawn."

"Aye, Maestro." Duncan's words are quiet, but his eyes flash with desire, offering much -- much that Consone knows he cannot take. 

He turns and walks away -- away from Duncan's life, from his sweet gypsy kiss -- embracing the silence at last.


End file.
